Taking Turns (Turning #1)(64)

“What the f*ck are you doing?” I watch him as he begins to undress. He lays his coat over a chair near the window, takes off his suit coat and walks into the closet, flicking on the light.

It’s filled with his stuff.

“It’s officially Sunday, Smith. Your time is over.”

“I’m staying anyway,” he says, unknotting his tie and pulling it through his shirt collar. He hangs it on a tie rack I never even knew this closet had.

“You can’t just stay here.” I laugh. “It’s my house. And Quin and Bric will be mad.”

“Do you care?” he asks, unbuttoning his shirt. I stop caring for a second as I watch him slip the shirt down his arms. They are nice arms. And when he turns his back to me, I stare at the muscle of his shoulders.

“I do care, actually. I like this so far. I’m interested in playing along. So I don’t want to be the reason we fail.”

“We’re already failing,” he says, unbuttoning his pants and letting them drop to the floor. He stands there in his black boxer briefs. Hard. His cock is still hard and even though I shouldn’t be turned on again so soon after what we just did, I am. “Bric is telling you to cut me out. You’re trying to break the rules without breaking the rules. I’m going along—”

“You’re going along?” I ask, my voice a lot louder than his. “This whole night was practically your idea and you know it.”

“Yup,” he says. “It was my evil little plan to get you downstairs so we could f*ck under the pretense we were all together.”

“Then why are you being such an * right now?”

“Because, Marcella,” he says, pulling on a pair of plaid pajama pants that—God help me, because it’s really not the time or place—make me chuckle a little. Smith Baldwin in pajama pants. It’s like we’ve morphed into this married couple, only someone forgot to tell me about it. “You’re playing with us, aren’t you?”

“You’re playing with me,” I say. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that you found us, didn’t you? I only thought I found you that night. I didn’t. You came to us. So what’s going on, Chella?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Rochelle—”

“Fuck Rochelle,” he snaps. “No one cares about Rochelle. And don’t use her as your excuse.”

My stomach aches. A dark, cold, hard feeling sits down in the pit. Like it’s always been there, but I got used to it. And then it went away, unnoticed, but now it’s back.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

I swallow down the sickness inside me. “I swear, I haven’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then leave,” I say, standing up taller. Why should I let him know so much about me? I know nothing about him, other than he’s involved in some pretty sick shit.

“I live here now.”

“What?” I laugh, but it’s not funny. “You don’t.”

He walks out of the closet, flicking the light off as he passes me, walks over to the switch on the wall, flicks the other lights off as well, and then gets into bed.

“What the f*ck are you doing?”

“Go to bed, Marcella. We had a nice time tonight and it was clever, right?” He stares at me in the darkness, his face just barely visible in the dim moonlight filtering in from outside. “We got what we wanted and we didn’t cheat.”

“Didn’t we? If we were being honest we would’ve told Quin and Bric we were there.”

He says nothing, He just smiles.

“Why are you staying here?” I ask.

“Why are you staying at the Club?”

“You guys want me there.”

“I want you here, Chella. Not there.”

“They want me there. Quin and Bric.”

“Do you know what you want? Out of this arrangement?”

I draw in a long breath of air and then let it out slowly. “No. But I’m doing my best to figure it out.”

“Are we helping you? Or hurting you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I admit.

“You know what I want?”

I shake my head. “No. I have no idea what you want.”

“Don’t you think you should know that?” he asks. “Before you go much further.”

“What do you want?” I ask in a small whisper.

“You. Obviously.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me out yourself? Why are you in this relationship with two other guys?”

“Because they help me process things. They give me perspective and clarity. And I like rules. Rules make sense. I like things that make sense. And love… love makes no sense at all.”

None of what he’s saying makes any sense to me, either. Not one bit of it. “Will you come upstairs Wednesday night? When I’m with Bric?”

“If you invite me, yes.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“Then I’ll see you then.” He turns over and faces the window. “Goodnight, Chella.”

I stand in the doorway for a few more seconds, unsure of what to do or say. But he’s dismissed me. So I guess it’s not even my decision to make. I leave, whispering, “Goodnight, Smith,” as I walk upstairs to bed.